


Tablets that never fade

by MelodyGarnet



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Disassociation, Gen, Reichenbach AU, The Great Hiatus, ambiguous ending, doesn't actually happen tho, holmes goes into a three year emotional shock, i guess, mention of suicide, moran goes after watson, slight AU, wrote this on mobile im sorry the train was just so boring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 01:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11430210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyGarnet/pseuds/MelodyGarnet
Summary: For three years, Holmes relives the memory of a gunshot over and over.He was never the target.





	Tablets that never fade

**Author's Note:**

> ‘O Spirit! through the sense  
> By which thy inner nature was apprised  
> Of outward shows, vague dreams have rolled,  
> And varied reminiscences have waked  
> Tablets that never fade;  
> All things have been imprinted there,  
> The stars, the sea, the earth, the sky,  
> Even the unshapeliest lineaments  
> Of wild and fleeting visions  
> Have left a record there  
> To testify of earth.'  
> -P.B. Shelley, Queen Mab

My memory of that fateful day is vivid. I revisit it again and again on my travels, it occupies every wakeful hour of my exhausting days and wakeful nights. I used to mock Watson's sentimental style, but it fits the occasion. There is no reason left of me, naught but grief and vengeance. Relief too, soon, when I am done. It is not long now; for the first time in three years I am homeward bound. Home again at last. Then, rest. Rest from this:

_I had just finished writing the farewell note to my dearest Watson at the Reichenbach Falls when the professor stepped into view before me. I tucked the note safely away so it would not fly away on an unfortunate breeze. The professor was calm, smile incongriously genial for all that we were sure to battle soon. He greeted me with a polite nod._

  
_"Mister Holmes."_

  
_I nodded back, "Professor."_

  
_It was necessary to raise our voices considerably, as the roar of the falls was deafening. In the corner of my eye, I spied the glare of a gun telescope reflecting sunlight. No doubt Moriarty's best gunman,_ _hidden among the bushes on top of the cliffs across the fall, placed there to make sure that I did not escape the coming confrontation with my life._

_Yet something bothered me momentarily; from what I had gathered, Moriarty's best man would surely not commit such an amateur mistake as to show himself this early. Perhaps it served as an intimidation tactic, I wondered. If so, I was determined it would not work. I had some plans behind my sleeve as well._

  
_"Humour me, Mister Holmes", Moriarty said,  "Where, exactly, is the good doctor?"_

  
_I frowned. The professor had always dismissed my Watson before; I did not know why he was_ _suddenly interested now. I should have realized something was amiss at that exact moment, but I did not._

  
_"The doctor is halfway down the mountain on a medical errand he does not know is nonexistent", I replied the Professor. I stepped closer to distract him from the subject: "Your quarrel is with me. He ought not to be involved."_

  
_There was a fob watch in Moriarty's left hand; he had been keeping an eye on the time. I remember feeling somewhat surprised he was not devoting his complete attention to me, his so-called arch-nemesis. The man liked his dramatics enough for this final confrontation to warrant his full attention, surely. Moriarty snapped the fob watch shut. Later, I would determine the time to be around 21 minutes past two pm--I imagine he thought it beautifully ironic._

  
_"Indeed he ought not be involved, yet he is. You involved him when you brought him along on your flight from England", Moriarty smiled coldly, "My associate and I have made sure to remedy that."_

  
_The shot echoed before I could react. For a brief moment, I thought I had been hit by the gunman in the bushes after all, but the echoes sounded wrong and I felt no pain. The shot had come from far behind me. Halfway down the mountain, I remember locating. Moriarty's best gunman was not in the bushes, I realized, but had had a far more important target._

  
_My Watson..._

  
_Moran could have muffled his shot, yet he did not. The whole theatre-- the leading question, the fob watch, the loud, echoing gunshot-- were clearly designed to elicit an emotional response. Moriarty_ _expected me to become easily subdued in my unexpected grief and impotent rage._

  
_A moronic genius. He did not know me as well as he thought. There was no final confrontation, no great battle between the two greatest minds of our age. There was no plan or strategy, not even a scuffle._  
_There was only me, grabbing him by the coat lapels and jumping into the falls with him._

I did not die.

I believe in God, only so I can curse him for that every day.

I had survived the fall, the rocks, the maelstrom. I was hurt beyond belief, and I was not strong enough to throw myself in a second time once raw human instinct had driven me to crawl ashore. I had survived.

  
Yet, I was dead in all ways that mattered. Watson had been...everything. I did not realize how well he had buried himself into me until he was gone.

  
Moriarty was dead, yet his web of crime was not destroyed. In fact, Moran- his best gunman, his second in command- had probably inherited it. The killer of my Watson was alive, I realized, more rich and powerful than the disgraced army captain could ever have imagined. It burned at me.

 

I learned well how deep a man can sink into meaningless survival, into violence and revenge, into self-flagellation. I cannot tell you where I have been the past three years. I cannot tell you how I dismantled Moriarty's web piece by piece. I chased, I caught, I destroyed, I forgot, then I moved onto the next target.

  
I refused all  but the thought of revenge, not even the memory of my time with my Watson did I allow. There was only the work, and the echo of that gunshot. I know not who I am without revenge. I know not what I will do when the work is done. Another river, I suppose. I do not think I am strong enough to live on-- the consequence of letting one man's companionship be the single cause of true contentment in one's life. I lived without him once; I will not do so again. I only have to finish the work.

  
Moran forever stayed out of my grasp. It was as if he were dead himself, but I knew it could not be so. If I could not kill him myself as crowning glory to the work, the past three years would be meaningless.

  
I looked for him, when all else was done, yet I found no trace of him. I concluded then that he must be hiding in the one place I had avoided.

  
In all that time, I had not returned to London. I feared the familiar streets would hurt too much and Thames would look too inviting. I knew I would not resist her for long once I had seen her, so I took care to leave London for last.

  
Now here I am. Baker Street, late at night, or perhaps early morning. Deep in thought, I had walked home instinctively. I still have the key, rusty though it is. How it did not fall out of my pocket in the fall defies all known laws of nature. I smirk, my Watson would call it a good omen.

  
Watson...it is the first time in years I allow a sweet memory to cross my mind. It will be over soon, anyway. I play with the key in my hands and with that thought, I unlock the door and mount the familiar steps. One last time, I tell myself, for old times' sake.

  
The flat door is closed but unlocked. I see in the dim glow of dying embers that the living room is unchanged from how I left it three years ago, save the coffee table: served for one with the remains of tonight's dinner not yet cleaned away.

  
A blond man sits asleep in the armchair by the fire.


End file.
